Sticky Little Fingers
by poestheblackcat
Summary: Future!fic, Eliot and various hellspawn...brats...children. Written for comment-fic at LJ. Prompt: Friends with kids.


Summary: Future!fic, Eliot and various (hellspawn) (brats) children. Written for comment-fic at LJ. Prompt: Friends with kids. Tiny bit of established P/H and N/S.

* * *

**Sticky Little Fingers**

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. It's not there. He scowls and mutters something to the cashier about forgetting his wallet in the car. Then he storms outside and pulls out his phone, which, thankfully, is still in his other pocket.

"Parker," he growls, "Tell your kids ta keep their fingers outta my damn pockets!" He breathes slowly, trying to calm himself down. "Or no cookies."

Parker gasps. "Frankie! Carrie!" she calls. "Come here right now!" Several seconds later, Eliot can hear her saying in her "angry mom" voice, "Franc Hardison. Did you steal Uncle Eliot's wallet?"

"No," the little boy chirrups, "Nuh-uh."

"Carat?"

"Of course not!" the almost second-grader says indignantly, "I'm not _stupid."_

"Hm," Parker harrumphs, "Well, don't. _Or no cookies."_

In the horrified silence that follows her warning, Eliot grins and chuckles as noiselessly as he can. At least, until the kids start crying. Then he feels bad. So he adds, "For a week. Tell them, only for a week."

"For a whole _week,"_Parker repeats ominously.

"But we didn't!" cry both children simultaneously. "We swear! It was Irene!"

Irene, Nate and Sophie's daughter, evidently has the same perfect timing as her mother, since she arrives on the scene just as the hacker and thief's kids swear their innocence and rat her out.

"What was Irene?" she asks, big brown eyes wide open in perfect innocence.

Parker puts her hands on her hips. "Uncle Eliot is missing his wallet," she says.

"It wasn't me. I'm not that good at picking pockets." Irene says modestly. "Besides, I wouldn't take Uncle Eliot's wallet."

"Then what's this?" Carrie says, holding up the worn leather wallet.

"Hey!" Irene cries, "You put it there!"

Oh boy. Eliot hangs up once the squabble starts. He hopes it'll have blown over by the time he gets home (following all the traffic rules so he doesn't get pulled over, since he doesn't have his license on him).

Irene greets him at the door. "I'm sorry," she says softly, and holds the wallet out to him. "I wanted to practice because I'm not as good as Frankie and Carrie."

He can't be mad at her. It's the eyes and the hair and the little pout, and...alright, alright, so he's a softy. So what?

He takes the offering. "No cookies," he says.

Irene whines, and he sees two curly-haired mini-thieves pop their heads into the room. "For anyone. I couldn't buy the ingredients because _I didn't have any money."_

Frankie and Carrie shoot glares at Irene, who studiously ignores them. "But now you do," she says sweetly, "Please, can we go back to the store and buy them? _Please?_ I'll carry _everything."_

It's the eyes and the hair and the little pout, and...God, he is such a softy.

So he bundles the kids into his car (which is equipped with child seats and a "Baby on Board" decal - for Hardison and Parker's youngest, Ruble, or Ruby, as everyone calls her - even though he doesn't even have kids), picks up all the ingredients for his special double chocolate chip and walnut cookies, _pays,_and doesn't even make them carry anything. He also makes sure to keep the bag of chocolate chips out of Frankie and Carrie's reaches because you never know with them.

And then they spend the rest of the afternoon baking. Irene watches her "cousins" so that most of the dough stays in the bowl and out of their mouths. Most of it. She sneaks some, too.

Parker comes into the kitchen with Ruby on her hip halfway through their baking session, and shakes her head at him. "You big softy."

"Whatever," he growls, even though he's sure the effect is not what he'd like it to be, with a four-year-old hanging off of his back and a streak of flour on his cheek, "I'm an awesome uncle."

She laughs. "I never said you aren't." Then she lifts his wallet out of his pocket, prompting a roomful of giggles.

"You're a bad influence," Eliot grumbles.

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AN 8/28/12: I now have more stories in this verse in "Twenty Three Chromosomes."


End file.
